


Their Last Vows

by 221b_hound



Series: Lock and Key [6]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Anal Sex, John and Mary's Wedding, M/M, Oaths & Vows, Panties, Photographs, Post Mary, Post-His Last Vow, Regret, Tattoos
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-06
Updated: 2015-04-06
Packaged: 2018-03-21 12:49:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,970
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3692931
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/221b_hound/pseuds/221b_hound
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John catches Sherlock wearing the pink cotton revenge panties and good times ensue. But then John finds out why Sherlock was looking at things under the bed with his arse in the air in the first place. They talk about the wedding that turned out to be such a bad idea, and then new promises are made.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Their Last Vows

**Author's Note:**

  * For [AtlinMerrick](https://archiveofourown.org/users/AtlinMerrick/gifts).



> We'll get back to John's wank fantasies soon. In the meantime, this.
> 
> Dedicated to Atlinmerrick, who really liked the idea of revenge panties.

The view of Sherlock’s full and awesome rear end wrapped in taut, candy pink cotton, the word ‘sexy’ in purple glitter gloriously extending from east to west as it stuck out from under the downstairs bed, was truly, John thought, one of the best things he’d ever seen.

And Sherlock, frozen in that pose, half burrowed under the bedframe, bum in the air as he’d groped around among the dustbunnies and boxes, extended the delight of the viewing for several long moments.

Long enough for John to realise that the love of his life was _up to something_. But he knew better, by now, than to ask outright. Besides, the candy-pink expanse before him was distracting, and making his jeans tight.

“You can stay like that all day,” John suggested from where he stood at the bedroom door, admiring the view. “Depending on your mood, you can stay like that while I have my way with you.”

“I thought these were a revenge gift,” came Sherlock’s slightly muffled voice from under the bed.

John’s face did an interesting dance, indicating a _sort of, maybe, they’re not lingerie but fuck if you don’t look hot in them anyway_ train of thought. Without even seeing John’s face do that dance, Sherlock somehow divined it from the silence and the way John shuffled his feet.

Sherlock, naturally, waggled his bottom a little bit.

John, naturally, stepped into the room and placed a hand on the small of Sherlock’s back, then ran it down to cup the centre of the lusciousness and give it a squeeze.

“No, seriously, Sherlock, if now is not a good time to be fucked senseless, you’ll have to get out from there, because otherwise I’m going to pull down those pants and stick my face in there until you’re wet enough for me to fuck you without lube, and we’ll both be useless for the afternoon.”

Sherlock waggled his arse again.

John got onto his knees, pulled the cotton panties down Sherlock’s thighs and, after a quick swipe with the wet wipes, did indeed stick his face in there and, after a good long while, filled with two men moaning filthily, his cock, and as a result they were useless for anything else for an hour or so.

John woke from his sated doze to find Sherlock cuddled up against him, head on the right side of John’s chest, tracing his fingers over John’s padlock tattoo on the left.

“So,” said John lazily, scrubbing his fingers through Sherlock’s tangled curls and against his scalp in the way Sherlock loved, “What were you looking for under the bed?”

Sherlock continued to trace the patterns of the S in the double locks on John’s chest. “Nothing important.”

 

John rubbed a hand from Sherlock’s nape, down his spine to his arse, and didn’t even have to say ‘liar’.

“An old notebook,” Sherlock said after a moment, “Case notes. I found something else instead.”

John smoothed his hand up Sherlock’s spine again, caressing between his shoulder blades, and then he remembered.

“Ah.”

“I didn’t know you’d kept it.”

“I…” John’s hand stilled against Sherlock’s skin and he closed his eyes. “Didn’t know what to do with it. So I put it under your bed when I moved back here. Stupid. I just… I didn’t want it near me, but I wasn’t ready to go through it.”

“Go _through_ it?” Sherlock’s voice was brittle and his body was very still.

“Pictures of you and me,” said John after a moment. “I liked those. But I couldn’t look at any of the others. It was supposed to be the happiest day of my life, getting married, and it was just…” He sighed. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have put it in here. Or I should have taken it out after we finally got together. I just didn’t want to see it again.”

John sighed and drew his knees up as Sherlock pulled away from him. He tried not to flinch as Sherlock sprawled naked on the bed, dropped his shoulders over the edge and rummaged around underneath it before resurfacing with the fat, glossy photo album.

The wedding album.

It was covered in a thick layer of dust.

Sherlock dumped it on the bed and moved to sit up beside John, his own drawn-up knees mirroring John’s position.

“I thought Mary and I could make each other happy,” said John, miserably, staring at it. “I was so tired of being sad, and you’d come back but I was still…”

“Angry?” suggested Sherlock.

“No. I told you in the train car I forgave you. But I… it didn’t feel like I could trust you. Or like you really trusted me. Not with _that_. With telling each other how we really felt. It was still the wrong time, and back then, Mary was still… still the one who loved me, I thought, and didn’t deserve to be tossed aside, especially when it didn’t seem you wanted anything more with me, and I just wanted…” He stumbled to a stop and glared at the photo album.

“You wanted something normal,” Sherlock said, “A wife. Children.”

“No,” said John sharply, “I wanted someone who loved me and who wanted me to love them back. That’s all. And it wasn’t… it wasn’t us, yet. It wasn’t the right time for that to be us, and I didn’t think it ever would be. And I thought I loved her, and I suppose I did, but it turned out I couldn’t love her as much as I loved you, and she couldn’t love me as much as she loved herself, and she couldn’t even give us the baby, because the baby wasn’t mine and…” He drew a shuddering breath. “And we’ve talked about this before.”

“I haven’t said I’m sorry before.”

“For what?”

“For… not seeing her. Properly. The truth is, I liked her, and I thought she was a good match for you, and I knew… how badly I’d fucked it up, leaving you, coming back the way I did. I thought it was all for good reasons at the time, but I think, now I’m being more honest with myself, I was just afraid you didn’t want anything else. And I knew she was a liar, but I didn’t think she’d hurt you.”

“She shot you,” said John, tone flat, “And she lied about the baby, after she found out it wasn’t mine, and then she…”

Abruptly, John leaned forward and flipped the book open. Without looking, he flipped past pages of him and Mary, the wedding party, everyone, until he found one of Sherlock and Janine. He snorted a laugh then. “I probably don’t have to tell you how jealous I was of her.”

“No need to be,” said Sherlock, “There never was.”

“Yeah, but I didn’t know that until the night we got into Magnussen’s office.” He scowled. “Fucking bastard. Fucking Mary, too.”

He turned the page forcefully, until he found the one he had always liked – him and Sherlock, in their matching suits and tophats, matching buttonholes, Sherlock looking his handsome, imperious best and John smiling, happy, because whatever else was going on, his best friend was back from the dead and at his side, where he belonged.

John peeled back the plastic sheeting and pulled out the picture. He leaned back on the pillow and held it up.

“You and me,” he said, “I wish I’d realised it was all I wanted. I wish I’d been able to _accept_ it was all I wanted, and even if _you_ didn’t want it then, I’d have blown the rest of it off and waited for you. Even if I waited forever.”

Sherlock took the picture from John, then put an arm around John’s bare shoulders. “If I’d known it was what I wanted… I don’t know. It wasn’t until after the ceremony that it finally occurred to me… I’d been very focused on wanting to make you happy, after having made you so miserable. And so I let those things about her pass unquestioned, because I thought it was time I stopped screwing up your life. Only it turns out I screwed it up for you anyway.”

They both stared at the photograph a little longer.

“It’s not our wedding photograph, John,” said Sherlock after a long moment.

John grimaced. He reached over and traced his fingers over the key tattooed on Sherlock’s chest. “No. But we look good together. And the things you said that day, about me…”

“I meant every word.”

“I know you did.” John took the photograph, slipped it back into the covers of the photo album, and threw the album on the floor. He turned to face Sherlock, then shifted to kneel between Sherlock’s ankles on the bed. He took Sherlock’s hands in his.

“Sherlock…”

“John?”

“I, John Hamish Watson, take you, William Sherlock Scott Holmes, to be my consulting detective, my best friend, and the love of my life, to have and to hold, and to argue with about human remains in the appliances, from this day forward. For better for worse, being clueless about the clues and punching the fuck out of anyone who tries to harm you, in pathetic man-flu or in refusal to eat or sleep for days while on a case, to love and to cherish and to buy you a really lovely pair of silky knickers, though you did look fucking gorgeous in the revenge panties, for as long as we both shall live.”

Sherlock, whose gaze had not shifted from John’s for this whole speech, licked his lower lip. “And socks?”

“Ah…”

“I found the cashmere socks,” Sherlock breathed, “Where you hid them. And you may have worked this out already, but you have a decided thing for my feet.”

John blinked. “All right. To love and cherish and to buy sexy underwear and beautiful socks for your beautiful feet. As long as we both shall live.”

Sherlock reached out, pressing first his fingertips and then his palm against John’s tattoo, so he could feel John’s heart beating under his hand.

“I, William Sherlock Scott Holmes, take you, John Hamish Watson, to be everything. Forever. Or as long as you’ll have me.”

“You don’t think I’m ever giving you up now, do you?” John asked, placing his hand over Sherlock’s on his chest. “Everything. Forever. Good.”

He began to lean towards Sherlock, but the intended slow-burning kiss was pre-empted when Sherlock scooped his hands around John’s waist and he launched himself forward, throwing John back on the bed and landing on top of him. One knee between John’s thighs, the other up near John’s hip, he kissed John breathless, pinched his nipples and licked and bit his throat until John, laughing, got the upper hand and then pinned Sherlock to the bed.

“Cold night,” he said, between rutting against Sherlock’s belly and biting on his earlobe, “I hope that fucking album’s flammable.”

Sherlock wound his legs around John’s hips and took his turn at manhandling his partner to the mattress again. He wriggled until he was kneeling between John’s thighs and John’s legs were spread wide to accommodate him. Sherlock placed his hands on John’s hips and then ran his broad, strong, warm hands up John’s ribs, over his chest and throat, down to his shoulders, up again to cradle John’s jaw. He leaned down to kiss the scar on John’s left shoulder, and as he drew away, John strained up to kiss Sherlock’s chest too, not on the bullet scar itself, but on the tattoo.

“Forever,” John promised again, “Please.”

“Forever,” agreed Sherlock, “And perhaps you can wear your uniform for me sometime.”

John grinned lustily. “Sure thing. _Sexy_.”

And then Sherlock fetched the lube and used his fingers, mouth and cock to consummate the vows.


End file.
